


Our Side, Our Scent

by MarisFerasi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Beach House, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Nostalgia, OTP Feels, Playful Sex, Retirement, Sappy, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-12 18:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: 100% self-service domestic fluff and smut because I am a sap. I am a pine tree in glasses, and I am dripping sap.The boys retire to the coastal countryside after a long holiday leaves them unwilling to go back to London. They buy a cottage, Aziraphale gets sappy and nostalgic, and they have lots of sex in their little conservatory.





	Our Side, Our Scent

Aziraphale made the page turn with a thought, too absorbed in what he was doing with his other hand to move it unnecessarily. It was currently quite entangled in long, red curls, languidly combing through and letting them drop listlessly onto sharp shoulderblades as he came to the ends.

Crowley was asleep in the angel's lap in naught but his pants, as undressed and carefree as he had been since shortly after they came to their lovely cottage near Hunstanton. He was sprawled on his belly in a sun spot on the chaise lounge in their breakfast room (it's more of a proper _orangerie_, but who's even throwing around words like _that_ anymore?) with both arms flung over Aziraphale's thighs and his face pressed tight to one eon- softened hipbone. He hums in his sleep and his toes curl, stirring for the first time in hours.

Aziraphale's eyes slide from the page to the roll of muscle up one slender-gold calf, his mouth watering just a little. He'd happily sink his teeth into that firm flesh. 

"Are we getting up today?" The angel sighs like the heavily put-upon, sliding a bookmark into his novel and laying it on the small table to the side. Crowley's tea has long gone cold, a ring darkening the rim which he'll have to miracle clean _again_ later. 

"'S up earlier. Sucked you like _anything_, 'fore you even got out of bed," Crowley grouses, flopping onto his back and squinting up at the bright sky through the greenglass of the top of the orangerie. It's barely even five. "Plenty of day left, angel." 

"Hmm. A few hours. Nibbles on the beach, dear boy? I could pack a picnic." 

"_I'll_ pack it. You always forget something," Crowley teases through a huge yawn, sharp teeth flashing. He melts back into the velvet and cracks an eye open, peering up at Aziraphale. "Go on, find your costume. And we're taking a bottle." 

Aziraphale watches with a pleased smile as Crowley saunters into the kitchen and digs for their basket under one of the counters, packing cheeses and fruit and a little flappy plastic container of prosciutto, plunking in a large bottle of red and two glasses. 

They're doing things with as little miracles as possible now, going the extra mile to avoid being bothered by either previous employer. So far, it's given them thirteen years of utter peace. 

"Dont forget sun cream. You'll burn," the angel says as he passes, trailing fingers over the waistband of Crowley's briefs. He kisses a freckle on the ridge of shoulderblade before him, scampering away before the serpent can turn and catch him. 

Upstairs, in the lone bedroom, Aziraphale goes through his drawers and finds the swimming costume he wants. He fingers the fabric for a moment and looks out the little picture window, feeling a little nostalgic at the sight of the sea. He listens to Crowley clunking around still, probably searching for the hummus they'd finished as a midnight snack. 

The resigned, almost _hissy_ sigh he hears confirming this brings a smile to his face again. 

He doesnt remember being this happy, not really. Not so long-term, surely. Bouts of it-- happiness, that is-- are littered across time (and they typically involve Crowley, as well) like bright gemstones against a monotonous backdrop, but this....

This has been the _best_ time of his long, long life. They are free, and together, without work or supervisors weighing them down.

Or _guilt_. 

Or _fear_. That had been a rather large hurdle, especially for an (unreliably dogmatic) angel. 

Crowley pads up the stairs and sticks his nose in the bedroom, now draped in the hand- knit tartan throw that they use as a picnic blanket. It doesnt trap sand, blessedly.

"Are you getting ready or not?" He fusses, but it's lacking any heat. 

"I assume you're going like that?" Aziraphale cocks an eyebrow (disguised as disdain, but it comes off as more _posessive_ than anything), removing his house clothes and sliding on the long, "ridiculous" (Crowley's word) Victorian, striped affair he insists upon wearing.

Crowley watches appreciatively and leans on the doorway with his hip cocked. At the comment, he raises an eyebrow and one hand, snapping as his briefs change material and become an equally-tiny black speedo with oxblood piping around hipbone and narrow thigh. "Really, dear boy?" Aziraphale huffs. "Was it so inconvenient to go to your drawers and fetch a pair?" 

"You _ripped_ my last set, if you recall." Crowley drawls, winking when Aziraphale's cheeks pinken. "Tearing them off so you could _get inside."_

They'd been rather boisterously drunk, that night. He might have gotten a bit carried away.

"I could just go naked, if you'd prefer I reverse it." Crowley raises his hand again, ready, grinning. 

"No, you... brat." Aziraphale finishes lamely, making Crowley grin, quick and feral like he's trying to be mischievous. "Let's get a wiggle on." 

Outside, Crowley hefts the basket onto their small cart and checks that their sand chairs and a beach umbrella are present and accounted for before gripping the handle in one hand holding out the other. Aziraphale smiles and takes it, and they set off down their hill toward the dunes. 

After several minutes of walking in comfortable silence, the angel asks: "Do you remember when we first came here?" 

"Yeah." Crowley replies. He kicks a pebble out of the way of the cart wheels and squints behind his glasses. "You were afraid they'd follow." 

Aziraphale hums. Interesting that Crowley should remember that aspect, when all he could remember was that they'd finally found a common ground and _touched_.

___

** Thirteen years ago: a "quick getaway," three days after The Switch**

"Ward it, _please_," Aziraphale practically begs as the door slams behind their too-tense shoulders, hands shaking as he places overlapping angelic sigils tightly between Crowley's red-glow demonic ones. Between the two of them, they coat the cottage all around with warding spells and banishing marks. Crowley throws an extra two across the chimney, top and bottom. 

"Nothing's getting through, angel. We might be stuck _in_, actually." He makes a moue at the front door and then sighs, melting a little before the angel's eyes. It's as if tonnes of weight has been lifted, and he's sagging from the effort of simply _everything_ these last few weeks. He takes his dark glasses off and hooks them in his coat pocket, before taking off his coat and vest and draping them over the back of a nearby chair. 

Aziraphale knows that feeling well, the need to spread out and force something to be comfortable for your own peace of mind. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and shucks his coat onto a tree by the door. 

He peers at the doors and windows, deciding to inspect the cottage they just tore through without seeing. Crowley follows a step behind, lurking without trying (Aziraphale can tell the difference by now).

It's quite a nice little brick affair: two bedrooms (one is made up like an office with a narrow single cot in the corner, the other has a large overplush double with a heavy rustic frame and a shockingly fluffy down-packed duvet), a living space with a wood fireplace and brickwork chimney to keep out the moisture from the sea, one bath with a spacious tub, and a smallish but workable kitchen. The roof is thatched and there is a glassed-in room off the kitchen, perfect for taking breakfast or tea. You can see the sea from out here, or from the small bedroom window above it. 

"Oh it will be _lovely_ when it rains," Aziraphale sighs. "Crowley _look_, a greenhouse!" There are few plants here, smallish excuses for life. 

Crowley comes through the doorway and squints at them, inspecting the room. "Orangerie. Too small for a greenhouse, and no ventilation." At the angel's pout, though, he amends: "Good for tea. Did we do this room?" 

"I'm not sure," Aziraphale murmurs, winding the sigils on his fingers again, just in case. This would be too easy to spot them. Crowley follows suit and the glass is thoroughly coated in every defense they can muster between them. 

As a matter of fact, because of Crowley's _particular_ parlour tricks, time stands _almost_ still between the doorways (excepting for themselves, of course). It wont affect wildlife or the paper being dropped off at the garden gate, but anyone unwelcome barging in will find themselves quite frozen in place. Anyone else (such as aimless humans) wandering too close will find themselves with a strong desire to go another direction entirely.

Crowley's proud of that one. It feels mischievous. 

Aziraphale makes a sort of harsh sob in his chest and slumps into a hard chair in the kitchen, head in his hands and elbows on his knees. It's a position Crowley has rarely (if ever) seen the angel take. He freezes for a moment, standing a bit awkwardly, and then goes to his friend. He takes a breath in through his mouth involuntarily and stands there, unsure of what exactly to do, and then kneels between Aziraphale's feet, forcing the angel to make room. 

"Angel, we're alright. We're _here_ and _safe,_ both of us, and _they_ don't know. We left the bookshop and the Bentley warded, we _disappeared_. We should be a big, blank spot on the map, if they're even looking anymore." When Aziraphale only snorts at him, Crowley stays on his knees, shuffling forward so their heads are almost even. He tentatively places his fingertips over Aziraphale's elbows and waits. 

"I feel like everything... _all of it_, except the shop, which feels-- _hollow_\-- now, and _you_, which is...its own predicament, is just.. _gone_. I'm...scraped out, like a blasted... _pumpkin_. Do you..._is this how it felt_?" Aziraphale ends on a whisper, almost too scared to ask it aloud. Crowley straightens and shuffles on his shins. 

"No. Falling is like... the absence of anything. There's nothing left, just yourself in an endless... void. It's suffocating on nothing, like carbon monoxide. You...you havent _fallen_, angel. Your wings are still white, you still look like a great bloody bleached lion with a whitespark halo and blue-dwarf eyes to me. You just don't feel the oppressive weight of _them_," he points a finger heavenward, "on the back of your neck anymore." Crowley waits again, ever patient. "Neither do I." 

"How are _you_ the calm, logical one right now?!" Aziraphale hisses, fingers digging into his own hair again. One wrenches free and drifts down to his chest, fisting the fabric as he breathes hard, panicking _finally_. Crowley purses his lips and nods. 

_That is a good question,_ he thinks. He nods again, humming in agreement. 

"Come here, angel," Crowley tugs at his sleeve, urging his dearest friend to the sofa just as the fireplace crackles to life. "Maybe I just remember how it feels, being lost and feeling alone all the time. Most of the time," he amends, smiling softly when Aziraphale glances up from the ridges of the corduroy sofa they're sat on. He frowns. 

"You're never _alone_. You always have-- whatever it is you do when you're not with me. Work, demon... friends? Surely a human or two," Aziraphale hedges, fidgeting in his seat. He suddenly remembers holding Crowley's hand on the bus home from Tadfield and wants to hold it again. He looks down at Crowley's lap and takes the hand closer to him, threading their fingers so he can run his thumb across knuckles that feel like the skin should instead smooth, perfect-knit scales. 

Crowley always was better at the transfiguring magic than he was. He supposes having to hold a humanoid shape into...well, _into shape_ must have made him an old hand at the simpler stuff. 

Aziraphale's eyes snap back to Crowley's face and he sees a wrinkle between those gold-suffused eyes. "What? Should I--" he goes to pull his hand away but Crowley's tightens his, keeping them pressed together. 

"I'm _always_ alone when I'm not with you," Crowley murmurs into the space between them, making it warm and close. They're closer, suddenly, and then Aziraphale is taking a soul deep breath and their mouths crash together, opening and tilting, sucking and nipping until Aziraphale is half in Crowley's lap and completely out of breath. 

____

**Present**: 

Crowley spreads the picnic blanket on the grass, far away enough from the water that the tide won't be an issue if they spend the day. There are a few others walking, a couple with a dog and two kids, playing fetch with some driftwood. A few teens from the town drag sticks along the tideline, leaving trails. The sun is setting, slowly but surely, burning the tide a burnished orange and gold.

Aziraphale watches the humans with a squinty smile, holding onto his sun hat in the wind until a familiar bout of cursing catches his attention. He places the basket on one edge of the blanket and the wheels of the cart on another, preventing the whole thing from up-turning a second time on his flailing love. They drive narrow stakes into the sand at the corners of fabric and settle down, pitching the umbrella up. 

"Sun cream," Aziraphale prompts, holding the tube at Crowley like an errant thought, but Crowley knows if he doesnt put it on he'll be shedding by tonight, which will drive both of them up the walls. He snatches the tube haughtily and smears it over his legs and front top half, expecting the angel to do his back (he does, without prompting, as Crowley digs for, uncorks, and pours the wine). 

They drink and snack and people-watch lazily, the demon laid out on his back, long legs akimbo, very nearly nude and basking in the sun, and the angel in his chair in the circle of shade thrown by the umbrella. 

"What's got you all nostalgic today?" Crowley pushes down his shades and asks after a while, propping up on his elbows from his belly and tying his wild hellhair up as it blows around. It makes a sloppy bun on top of his head. The shorter, baby-hair tendrils curl down around his jawline, and Aziraphale can hardly bear the sight without making a frankly disgustingly soft face. It's a wonder their utter devotion to one another hasn't sent one of them into an absolute fit of frenzy by now (though that first week in the cottage could hardly be described as anything less than a _frenzy_ though not necessarily how you're thinking. That came just a _bit_ later).

"I dont quite know, darling. It's nearly our anniversary," he says, forgetting to school his face before Crowley glances up with a quick grin and sees it (he rolls his eyes and mutters _gross_ under his breath. His man is flushing for a completely separate reason that the sun). "You've got enough sun, you'll be miserable and shedding the rest of the week if you don't get under the umbrella." 

Crowley puts on his song and dance of grousing about it and calling Aziraphale "dad" (which Aziraphale does _not_ get, but also doesnt ask for an explanation-- it's one of those modernly ironic misnomers he'll never quite grasp) as he crawls over the angel's knee and settles between his legs with his pink back laid up against Aziraphale's front. His belly is equally as pink, as he's been flipping over between napping and reading a magazine. Aziraphale trails his fingers over the hot skin and resumes watching the humans. A small group of children with a few adult's (one of which is a teacher, he overhears) are inspecting a jetty of rocks, likely searching for crabs in the low-tide. That circle of shade moves sideways across the sand over the last few moments of daylight, marking the passage of the late afternoon as readily as the surge and then dwindling again of tourist life as folks go back to their hotels and homes for dinner and bed. 

"Do you remember when you started the garden?" 

Crowley breathes deep, shifting a bit. "The apple tree," he mutters, mouth pursed against a grimace. "Seemed far too... intentional, it being here." 

___

**Back then:**

It's been nearly three months since they arrived at the cottage, and just over a week since Aziraphale let the wardings fade and the door and windows open. Crowley immediately slunk outside to survey the land and the small, withered garden. 

Aziraphale finds him on a stone bench around nightfall, as the first stars are peeking out. 

"Oh, wow. I'd forgotten how smoggy London can be. They look beautiful out here," he says, standing a few feet away. 

They'd been in such close quarters for two months and change, trying to politely avoid arguments or overstepping, and Crowley had slept through a large portion of most days out of sheer avoidance. The touches had continued, as had some kissing and cuddling, but they were both palpating this new rhythm and proximity of theirs, too afraid to break any spell so far by pushing one another any further. 

"I can see them here. Some of them, the brighter ones," Crowley admits. "Snake eyes don't see all that well." 

"Didnt you make some of them?" Crowley nods. "Seems--" 

"Seems like the last twist of the knife, leaving me with eyes that couldnt see my own creations. Seems... ironic." 

Aziraphale is quiet for a while, watching Crowley watch the stars, and then: "I think...for a very long time, I avoided the concept that I felt this... _much_ for you. The things that I've felt for...w-well, forever, it seems. I was scared, terrified really, of what our love could do, if anyone found out. The smallest misstep, even just reaching out for your arm at the wrong time could.... But _Crowley_," he looks over and the demon could be considered a statue he's so frozen with nerves. Aziraphale gives him a tiny smile and barrels on with a deep breath. "We've been sidestepping _this_ since the beginning, and no one's told us to knock it off. No one has bothered correcting our... affiliation. Frien_\--Friendship_, _call it what it is,_ Jesus." He puts his face in his hands again, like that first day here, and Crowley can't bear it. 

Crowley sighs a little, not quite knowing his footing. He shuffles closer on the bench, swings a long leg over so he's straddling it. "So you, uh... care for me?" Crowley says it with an edge of teasing, and Aziraphale can hear the grin in his voice. He turns his white-tuft head and glances up at the demon. "I _know_ you know I love you. You're cleverer than that. And I... I've never been able to hide it. I'd do anything for you, angel. Always have. You're the only reason I stay on this bloody planet, the only reason I'm _here_, by the way. Not just because of the switch, but... other stuff," he finishes lamely, fizzling out. "I used to be content to wait you out. Was really bloody fucking hard sometimes, and you made it _worse_ when you could." Aziraphale huffs indignantly but Crowley barrels on. "It wouldn't have ever worked before now, you know. You had to _choose_ me, over them. It had to be a conscious thing, I think. I've always chosen you over Heaven or Hell, so my timing didnt matter so much. And then... I thought you'd been killed. I was prepared to drink myself stupid until the End came. When you found me in that pub."

"I wondered about that. Couldnt exactly see where you were, or you, actually. Why did you?"

"What's the sense of saving the world just to live in it without _you_?" 

"Oh, _Crowley_," Aziraphale hiccups, sighing it like he's hurt. His chest hurts, his heart, but not bad. More like a fond ache he's become accustomed to. 

"You found me there. How?" Crowley prompts, remembering the pub with a clarity he hadn't yet recalled. It wasn't all that long ago, but he had been pissed. 

"I was blind, sort of in a bright vacuum, and I felt you--your essence, at least-- crying out for me like a siren. I went toward it. I couldnt see you, you know. But I knew you were crying into your drink." 

"Ngk. Wasnt crying," Crowley hisses, folding his arms across his chest. Aziraphale chuckles and unwinds one, keeping his hand. Crowley stares at it. "We should settle in, properly. Buy this place. Move your books, I'll make up some new space, I'm good at that. Made the stars," the last, Crowley mutters against pink, plush lips as they meet his own, smiling the broadest of smiles he's felt is angel crack in an age. 

It's a liniment to the soul, this black, frayed thing in his chest, smoothed out by pudgy, manicured fingers. 

There is a withered old thing of an apple tree that arches over the bench, and it springs slowly to life (despite the season) with such glowing beacons of love and light under it's reaching fronds. An apple blossoms and develops, hanging fat and red above the men kissing there, as if tempting, just a little, for them to notice. 

They won't notice anything right now, not even an air strike on the beach below their cliff-edge. They are in love, exposed nerves, and utterly devoted to what is happening, now.

And if the homeowner, a certain AirB&B owner, finds an additional few thousand pounds tacked on to the value of the home, no one quite remembers why, or really even notices. 

___

**Present**:

It's late, nearing bedtime for some, and two men are still entangled under an umbrella on one corner of the beach. Aziraphale is spending his evening much as he had that morning, with his hand combing through Crowley's hair, and the demon listlessly resting on his lap. 

Crowley is sun-warm and slightly pink, stretched on his back with long feet at the edge of the picnic blanket, his head cushioned on a pale, white-haired chest. He's managed to sleep nearly ten (intermittent) hours today, and will likely be miscevious all night. 

This can be good or bad, depending on how well Aziraphale decides to play along. Sometimes he harnesses that energy for more carnal pursuits, and it goes very well indeed. 

Sometimes he makes Crowley take a walk, wherein the demon will likely fill everyone's mailboxes with useless flyers and junk mail, or stick the door of the box shut with chewing gum. 

Maybe he'll lurk a little, unscrew porch lights just enough that they won't turn on, or ring a few doorbells just to hide in the bushes. 

Hunstanton really is a small town, not much evil to be done. His time taking down massive phone networks and irritating millions is over, for now. 

They're _retired_. 

Aziraphale finally closes his book, thinking vaguely about what he'll do with Crowley's extra energy from today's long nap as he stretches to pack what is within his reach back into their basket and cart. The last of the cheese disappears with a cracker, the last swill of wine drained along with it, and suddenly all that's left to do is jostle a cranky old occult being back to life. 

"Mmm," Crowley frowns, rubbing furiously at his closed eyes before he sits up and allows the angel to stand. Aziraphale tugs on one edge of their blanket, pulling more firmly until Crowley has to roll off (with a growl) or be tipped into the sand. "I'm going! Haven's sa--_urgh_!" 

"Let's go home, dear boy. I have plans for you." Unflustered, Aziraphale folds the blanket and stuffs it in the cart, turning with a smile toward his dearest friend and holding out a hand. A wide, toothy grin slowly etches across the demon's face and he preens a little, straightening from his sulky slump, and takes the angel's hand. 

After several moments of walking in peaceful silence, they're on the main road, and then diverting across to their driveway. "What do you have in mind?" Crowley finally asks, words tumbling out like a waterfall. 

"I thought a rinse off, first. No sense in getting sand where we least want it. But then, I'd quite like it if you'd use all this excess energy from your napping all day to ride me." 

Crowley chokes a little, still unused to the jolt of blood thrumming through him when Aziraphale is so baldly erotic. "Uh. Yes. That," he stammers, eyes focused on their cottage through the carefully cultivated foliage lining the driveway. 

Aziraphale gets his wish and then some, and the sight of the lithe demon on his knees beside their bed, swallowing his fat prick with no gag reflex is just as mindblowing as it was the first time, so long ago (not _so long_ for them, but sometimes it feels like they've always been _here_, doing _this_). Crowley crawls up him, reaching back to slick his own arse and slide some fingers in as Aziraphale stretches up to claim his mouth. 

Crowley's bum may be small, but it's perfectly round in his hands, gripping, spreading the narrow cheeks as the demon ruts between Aziraphale's belly and his own fingers, whining desperately in his throat now. He's three fingers deep and aching for _more_, always. 

Aziraphale leans back with a wicked smile, reaching down between them to tip his cock up, holding it steady as Crowley slips down the length of it. The girth is astounding, splitting Crowley in the best of ways as he rocks downward, taking centimeter by centimeter until he's fully seated and impossibly full. It's Crowley's _favorite_ feeling, this, perhaps second only to watching Aziraphale enjoy a delicious plate of something. 

This is not new, though as a pastime of theirs it could he considered such. They are well-attended to angles and preferences, where to bite, lick, bruise and suck. Crowley likes it when Aziraphale bites his neck, fingertips bruising around his hip bones as he grips him tighter and closer. Aziraphale lives for tender kisses and rough handling, callbacks to when they were too afraid to touch much at all, when Crowley would forget himself and get handsy when the angel pushed his buttons. 

Their climax is well-timed, they come to the beat of their heaving chests, Aziraphale getting slick with globs of come up his belly, smeared by their chests rubbing as Crowley grinds against him, gasping. The angel slowly rolls them, caging in Crowley with his arms strong and sure behind his head and lower back, their hips still locked together with him still buried inside. He lays Crowley down and slips out, obeying when the demon won't let him get much further. 

They cuddle, it's no secret. Crowley lays on his side and pulls the angel close, tucking his arse against plush hips, the curve of belly settling into his lower back, the soft press of down chest hair against his shoulder blades. Aziraphale pets his chest absently. 

"We need a proper bath now," he comments after a while, whispering in the low light. Crowley has nearly slipped off to sleep but he stirs anew, arching against Aziraphale. 

"I'll run it." He gets up and pads into the bath across the hall, hair loose and spiralling around the sharp edges of his scapulae. Aziraphale watches, smirking slightly at the rise and fall of each buttock as he walks, the smooth sway of serpentine spine, and sits up slowly, yawning to himself. 

And a few moments later, when they're reaching for one another again in the foggy mirror, stepping into the oversized tub and Crowley tugs him back to lay on his narrow chest, he speaks up: 

"I'm glad we came here. We were running, at first, but this has been the best of it, hasn't it?" 

"I dunno. I quite liked you in Regency clothes. Togas were nice, too. Accessible," he inches his hands downward, groping and tickling until he earns a splash in the face. 

"You know what I mean. Time here, together." 

"It's better than before, separated? Yes. Of course." Crowley hooks his chin over a plush shoulder and hums. "Awfully nostalgic today, indeed, angel. I remember the high points, like arguing over the bedding and how many times we could add interdimensional pockets onto the spare room to hold your books. And learning how to cook, which was a disaster. Learning which touches you liked best, and which ones _we_ liked most." 

"Hmm. Speaking of interdimensional pockets, we could add ano--"

"No! Four is _enough_!" Crowley groans, soaping up a loufa as a distraction for them both, running it over soft, pale skin. Aziraphale's giggle slips into a sigh as he leans back, revelling, and finally goes quiet. 


End file.
